People Who See

This week has been heavy, to say the least. On Wednesday I walked up the stairs to my house and thought, "I am barely crawling through life.” This thought could have been the result of the stairs themselves, granted. But it was certainly so much more: personal heartache, tragedy in friends' lives, the aching, splitting weight of the world—shootings and violence, death and raw evil. What are we to do with all this pain?

A few thoughts have run continually through my mind these last few days--mainly, the words from Gungor’s song, “Lovely Broken.” It starts with hope:

"Everything is lovely Everything is bright Everything is here because of glorious design Everything becoming Our salvation nigh You and I We will survive"

A man enters and sings the direct reverse: "Everything is broken Everything is pain Everything is dark and pointless What is there to say? Everything is empty Everything will die You and I"

And I have wondered at this space throughout all of college: how does one reconcile the direct beauty of the world with the stark brokenness it carries? I recently finished a book speaking on resilience—fascinating. How do we walk in spaces of darkness and still hold alight candles of redemption?

I am taking a class on political paradoxes this semester—a paradox is "a seemingly absurd or self-contradictory statement or proposition that when investigated or explained may prove to be well founded or true.” What is this paradox, the beauty of friendship and the weight of death, the hope of love and the knife of heartbreak, the glory of family and the pestilence of abuse? I don’t know the answers, the resolution, the hope.

How do we sit in this space and acknowledge the dark but refuse to be overtaken by it? How do we light a small candle and say “There will be a sunrise!” without blinding those in the dark by a false pretext of happiness when the wounds are gaping and all-consuming?

I’m reading through the Old Testament this season, and I have been fascinated again and again that God promises to bring the exiles home and restore the broken. “I will gather the lame, I will assemble the exiles…I will make the lame my remnant, those driven away a strong nation.” Later, Jesus comes and turns over not only tables—but flips upside down entire ideologies and systems. Blessed are meek. Blessed are those who mourn.

I wrote in my journal this week, “Is it possible for light to shine here in the pits of darkness specifically? I want healing to have a seat at the table in my life.

Maybe we do this by letting Jesus have a seat at the table still? If He is who He says He is—one Himself acquainted with sorrow—I think He himself will know the answers to these questions and be uniquely capable of resolving the paradoxes. I think He will ache in the misery—and yet, somehow, even without words, change the whole atmosphere, bring just enough peace and love to offer quiet joy even here. Especially here."

The book I read on resilience also speaks of vulnerability. The author says this: “Vulnerability is not knowing victory or defeat--it’s understanding the necessity of both; it’s engaging. It’s being all in…Vulnerability is not weakness, and the uncertainty, risk, and emotional exposure we face every day are not optional. Our only choice is a question of engagement. Our willingness to own and engage with our vulnerability determines the depth of our courage and the clarity of our purpose; the level to which we protect ourselves from being vulnerable is a measure of our fear and disconnection.”

Engagement. Courage. Purpose. Withdrawal. Fear. Disconnection.

Gungor’s song resolves with this: "See the night See the sunrise See the love See the heartbreak"

In light of the tragedies of our world—Sutherland Springs and personal heartache, gaping wounds of friends and the tension of America, the world--may we be people who choose to SEE both the night and the sunrise. May we engage, not withdraw. May we be people of Light, people of Courage, allowing Jesus a seat at the table. May we be people of Love—even here, especially here. May we sit in the tension.

May we see the night. May we see the sunrise. May we be people who SEE.